Hikaru no Joe
by hestialuna
Summary: After the ghost of a coffee-obsessed 18th century Italian barista starts haunting him, Shindou Hikaru tries to get a job at Café Meijin but is roasted during his interview by percolating protege Touya Akira. Afterwards, Shindou vows to prove his potential as a master barista and Touya's rival. The pressure is on!
1. Chapter 1

_**(Author's Note: FFnet won't let me post links or images, which really enhance the reading experience of this fic because you guys are missing out on the embedded coffee art and research that I tried to include in here. I can't even properly credit my sources because of this limitation. I HIGHLY recommend doing a search for "Hikaru no Joe" posted on Archive of Our Own and reading this fic there instead!)**_

It all started with the weird coffee maker that Hikaru's grandfather tried to give him at the beginning of his freshman year at university.

"It's called a moka pot," he had explained, handing over the clunky metal contraption. "All the other kids in your dorm are going to envy you for being able to make REAL coffee in your room. I used this same one back when I was in grad school and it got me through countless papers and a thesis. It's an antique, but it still works great."

The stout steel pot was shaped like an hourglass with flat hexagon sides and covered in scratches and dinged edges. Hikaru flipped it in his hands, looking for the power switch or an electric cord. "Umm... thanks Gramps, but I don't really drink coffee. I don't even know how this thing is supposed to work."

"You're starting college. You are definitely going to need coffee and this is better than wasting your money on the swill they serve at Starbucks. I'll teach you how to use it later!"

"Shindou-san, I think your phone's ringing!" A slim brunette girl with bright eyes bounded up the attic steps holding a cell phone. Her shiny blue nails perfectly matched the blue symbols on her shirt and skirt.

"Oh, thank you for bringing it to me, Akari. I'll take this downstairs."

Hikaru's grandfather left the attic and Akari crept over to Hikaru, who had just opened the pot lid and was gagging at what he saw.

"What is that? ... Is that for drugs, Hikaru?"

"Um, no, it's some kind of coffee maker that Gramps gave me. I know he's crazy about coffee, but this must be really old. There's all this brown stuff still stuck inside." Hikaru turned to her. "Wait, what are you wearing? Are you seriously going to become a cheerleader?"

"Yep, I can't wait!"

"That is so lame, Akari. Who does cheerleading in college?"

"Ugh, whatever Hikaru. You can't really criticize me when you've been bleaching your bangs the same way since middle school." Akari leaned over him and peered in. "What brown stuff? I don't see anything."

"Are you blind? Here, look." Hikaru stuck a finger inside and tried to scrape out some of the crust. A burst of light and wind shot out from the pot, knocking him back. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the small attic. Hikaru shrieked.

"What's wrong?" Akari looked at him curiously. Hikaru frantically pointed at the ceiling.

A tall elegant man, no a gentleman, hovered over Hikaru's head looking delighted with himself. He was wearing a white waistcoat and breeches with violet embroidery and tall black boots. Hikaru gaped and remembered the paintings he had seen in museums of guys with white wigs. Hikaru couldn't tell his age, but his face was pretty enough to pass for a woman... was he wearing makeup?

The gentleman finished admiring his limbs and touched his black ponytail thoughtfully. In a soft puff of mist, it was replaced with a powdered wig.

_I always wanted one of these._ He chuckled. Hikaru screamed again.

"Okay, now you're freaking me out," Akari stood up and backed away. "This isn't funny!"

"You don't see anything? European dude in a wig floating in the air? Right there!"

Akari paused and stared at him for several long moments. "... I'm going home, Hikaru. If you're taking stuff you shouldn't be, I don't want to know and also you should probably stop." She quickly disappeared down the steps.

"Akari!"

_Buongiorno! You can see me, can't you? I'm so glad to return to the world of the living!_ The ghost clapped his hands and twirled in the air. Hikaru stifled another scream and watched as the white figure slowly blurred into grey. He thought fainting from shock was something that only happened in movies, even as he felt himself crumple onto the floor.

* * *

_Do not worry, I believe I am visible only to you. I exist in your consciousness._

Hikaru tightened his fingers around his mug and tried to look out the window casually, as if there wasn't a voice echoing inside his head and occasionally appearing as a cheerfully-costumed man who was currently floating behind the counter of the coffee shop and sniffing the machines with delight. His body passed through the busy baristas, who seemed oblivious except for a shiver now and then.

"Worry? Why would I worry, I'm just going crazy and seeing a ghost straight from a European period drama, that's all. I don't even _watch_ period dramas. I don't know how my brain conjured you up."

The ghost floated back to him and smiled. At least he seemed like a nice ghost. Without thinking, Hikaru smiled back. The girl behind him frowned and buried her face behind her book. Hikaru quickly turned to the window again.

He had said his name was Sapiente Francesconi ("I can't pronounce all that. I'm just going to call you... Sai," Hikaru had flatly declared) and he lived in Venice, Italy in the 18th century. He had been a barista at a famous Venetian café and had become a ghost because he was apparently still really obsessed with coffee. Hikaru had trouble understanding this last part, but it wasn't as if anything else about this made more sense.

_Caffè Florian and the quality of our coffee was renowned for drawing together the most brilliant literary and philosophical minds of my time. Lord Byron, Goethe, Rousseau, Gozzi, the Enlightenment satirist Giuseppe Parini, the writer and poet Ugo Foscolo and the poets and patriots Silvio Pellico and Giovanni Berchet all drank my brews as they discussed and shaped the future of human culture and civilization. In truth, I am surprised that I have not reincarnated back in Italy instead. There must be a good reason why you were chosen. Il tempo ce lo dirà..._"

Sai sighed as he looked at Hikaru. Hikaru suddenly felt very inadequate.

_My spirit could not rest before perfecting my skills. Imagine the revolution I could have helped to create had I mastered my craft!_

"Yeah... this is really interesting and all, but I don't understand what it has to do with me. I don't know any of those people and I don't even like coffee."

_Oh, Hikaru!_ Hikaru felt his stomach lurch as the contents of his cup churned inside him in response to Sai's anguish. _But you promised!_

"I know, so stop doing that!"

_I'm sorry, it's not intentional!_

After the fainting incident at his grandfather's house, Hikaru had a few weeks to get acquainted with his new friend. Classes had started and it wasn't exactly easy trying to meet new people while pretending he didn't hear voices in his head, but Sai did come in handy during the intro literature and history courses.

Meanwhile, Hikaru needed a part-time job and Sai was desperate to be around coffee, so it made sense to look for work at a coffee shop. Sai had made him sample the coffee from all the cafés in a ten block radius around the school and begged him to apply to this one. They all tasted the same to Hikaru.

This place was really something though. Hikaru could tell why Sai liked it. Somehow, Sai didn't seem out of place here. Japanese coffee shops tended to look the same: brisk, clean, friendly, and a bit utilitarian. Café Meijin had elegant wood-paneled walls with giant watercolor paintings and thick padded armchairs by the windows. There was a comfortable murmur of conversation and sense of time standing still. Hikaru slumped down and tried to let the easy warmth of his armchair and the coffee soothe his frayed nerves.

A young man with long, dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail came over to Hikaru, carrying a clipboard. He was wearing a bright purple argyle sweater vest and Hikaru couldn't tell if he was being ironic or just genuinely had terrible fashion sense. "Hello, I'm Touya Akira. It's nice to meet you."

Hikaru hastily sat up and beamed. "Hey, you were in my orientation group! So you're a freshman too!"

"Yes, I am," Touya said with a smile.

"I guess you're here to apply for a job too. This place is pretty popular, huh?" Hikaru gestured to the packed tables and long line at the counter.

"Well actually, I work here. Sometimes it's not this busy," Touya chuckled. "I'll be interviewing you today. I'll ask you some questions first and then we'll do a hands-on test. How does that sound?"

"Oh... sure," Hikaru said sheepishly.

Touya took a seat across from Hikaru and clicked his pen. "So, can you tell me about your previous barista experience and your brewing strengths and weaknesses?"

Hikaru looked down at his hands and over to Sai, who was eagerly sitting cross-legged on top of the table next to them.

"I haven't practiced a lot yet, but I'm probably pretty good at it."

"You're probably good, but you haven't practiced?"

Hikaru glanced at Sai again. "Yeah, I think I really understand the spirit of coffee."

Sai groaned.

"Okay then… well, we prefer skilled baristas, but we're willing to train sometimes too. Can you tell me why you would like to work at Café Meijin?" Touya sat back with an indulgent and expectant smile.

Hikaru wasn't sure what he wanted to hear.

"... It's the coffee shop closest to my dorm?" Touya and Sai winced simultaneously. Evidently that wasn't the right answer.

Touya clicked the pen shut and decisively laid it on the clipboard. "It's clear you aren't quite familiar with our establishment and frankly, I'm a bit surprised. Café Meijin received two stars in the Tokyo Michelin Guide and we won Roaster of the Year from Asahi Shimbun last year. Have you even seen our online reviews?"

Hikaru admitted that he had not. He was also starting to feel queasy, probably because Sai was softly banging his head against the wall next to him.

He didn't do much better on the rest of the questions. Finally, they went behind the counter.

"I'm going to prepare an espresso for you and ask you to describe it to me. Afterward, I'll watch you prepare a drink. That will be the end of the interview."

Hikaru watched as Touya deftly heated a small cup, wiped out a small basket attachment from the espresso machine, and began grinding the beans. His hands moved like a magician's with smooth precision and confidence over the various levers until a steady stream of chocolaty liquid eased into the cup. Hikaru couldn't help but admire his skill while noticing the complete change in Touya's demeanor. His eyes darkened with focus and any hint of a smile was gone, but when the timer sounded, it flickered back on. Hikaru's heart was thumping erratically, probably from all the coffee he had been drinking for Sai.

"Here you are."

"Wow, you seem really good at this! I thought you were new here too!" Hikaru blurted. Touya blushed.

"Of course he's good at it. He's the Meijin's son," said a tall man in a white suit who had suddenly appeared behind Touya. Hikaru blanched under the gaze of his clear blue eyes.

"Meijin is a real person? I thought it was just the store's name."

"Meijin is what they call my father. He owns this shop. And this is Ogata-san, one of our store managers."

Ogata sniggered. "He doesn't even know who your father is? He's the Barista Champion of Japan! Why is he even interviewing here?" Touya gave him a look.

"Shindou, try this and tell me what you think." Touya handed him the small cup.

He took a cautious sip. It was better than what he had tasted in the past, but he couldn't tell why.

_Very impressive!_ Sai remarked. _Especially for his age._

"What should I tell them, Sai?"

Sai happily volunteered his thoughts at length and with enthusiastic hand gestures, but Hikaru could only catch fragments of unfamiliar words. Meanwhile, Touya and Ogata were starting to give him the now familiar side-eye as he waited for his invisible friend to finish talking. He needed to say something quickly before they started thinking there was something wrong with him.

"The, um, crema is really nice. It's the right color, apparently. This is the best coffee I've ever had so far, actually. It tastes really strong, but not bitter."

_I said so much more than that, Hikaru! Tell them what I said!_

Hikaru glared at Sai and faked a cough to cover it. Then, in a fit of inspiration, he grabbed a bowl of sugar nearby.

"Actually, if it were me, this is how I would improve it." Hikaru smirked at his own ingenuity as he ladled a big spoonful into the small cup and stirred it in. "I would probably use a bigger cup too so I could add some milk. And maybe some hot chocolate powder. Ahhh, now that's a lot better!"

He didn't notice the looks of horror on Touya, Ogata, Sai, and even some nearby patrons' faces until he put the cup back down.

"Hot chocolate...powder..." Touya wheezed, looking like he might need a shock blanket.

_HIKARU! APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!_

"Geez, I'm sorry! Did I say something wrong? Well, it's just coffee right? Something to wake you up in the morning?" Hikaru attempted a small laugh. Touya had that dark intense gleam in his eyes again, but this time he seemed like he would throttle Hikaru across the counter if there wasn't a burr grinder in the way.

"No, it is not _just coffee_. Feel my hands." Touya grabbed Hikaru and forced him to trace the pattern of calluses under his joints. Hikaru was weirded out by how surprisingly not weird that was. "I've been training with my father since before I was tall enough to reach the machines without a step stool! Properly brewing coffee requires a painstaking balance between science and artistry. And one day, I will surpass even my father and become the World Barista Champion."

Sai was floating in frantic circles around the coffee shop, causing a ripple effect of shivers through the patrons. He draped himself dramatically across the espresso machine and started wailing pitifully.

_Che pasticcio! I wished so deeply to be here! It reminds me so much of Caffè Florian! Hikaru, why are you ruining everythingggggggg?_

Hikaru felt the bile rising in his throat. In a moment, he would be puking right in the center of this packed coffee shop. He had to think fast.

"Hey, you said I had to make you a drink too, right? I can make you something amazing, I swear! I actually love coffee!" Hikaru stammered. Sai raised his head and looked at Hikaru in relief.

_Yes! Yes, I'll help you make a drink that will surely impress them and redeem you!_

Touya twitched. Ogata's sneer curled even further and he laughed.

"You know what, kid? Sure. Let's see what other great ideas you have."

"He's such a snake, Sai, with creepy snake eyes," Hikaru hissed mentally. "I don't think I really want to work here."

_Please just try. You promised. Hikaruuuuuuuuuu._

"OKAY, OKAY STOP WHINING! And tell me what to do."

_Just relax. I'm going to possess your body._

"WHAT!?" Hikaru yelped aloud, startling several patrons. This elicited side-eyed glances from Touya and Ogata yet again. "Sorry, there was a mosquito by my ear."

_I'm kidding! But follow my instructions EXACTLY. Pick up a demitasse, the small cup._

Thus began a very strange game of Simon Says, or rather Sai Says. Hikaru walked over to the looming, almost pristinely maintained manual espresso press in the corner, causing Touya to raise an eyebrow. He squinted and groped at the machine until he pulled the lever to heat the cup briefly. He felt like he was having an out-of-body experience while watching his hands stumble mechanically through Sai's instructions.

_Wrong button! The other one!_

_You must grind the beans finer than usual... yes, stop there!..._

_Good, tamp just a bit more. Now look carefully to check that it is as level as possible..._

_Here is the crucial part. The speed at which you pull the hand press must be faster than usual. On my count... start!... now, stop! Stop! E voilà! Bravo, Hikaru!_

Finally, Hikaru handed Touya the tiny cup filled with an even tinier bit of espresso and let out a relieved breath. All that work for just a tiny bit of espresso?!

Touya took the cup, started to raise it to his lips, then stopped and put it back down. His face was lowered and his shoulders were trembling.

"What's wrong? Why aren't you drinking it?"

"I know what it's going to taste like!" Touya spat out. "You've obviously never touched an espresso machine in your life before today. You insulted my drink and you have ridiculous hair. There is nothing you can prove to me."

Hikaru was incensed. Now _he_ felt insulted, even though it was true that he'd never used an espresso machine before. "You're one to talk about ridiculous hair! And even my grandpa wouldn't wear that sweater! Well, I don't even want to work for you guys anyway! I'll take my skills elsewhere and make even better coffee than you, Touya!"

Touya scoffed. "Now you want to be my rival? You'd never catch up to me. I feel more threatened by a jar of decaf Folgers."

Hikaru grabbed his backpack and stormed out of the shop. He strode angrily down several city blocks, not caring where he was going.

_What now, Hikaru?_

He finally stopped in front of a small coffee shop and read the sign: **Honinbrew**.

"Now it's time to get a job. And this time, I promise you they'll try your coffee."

* * *

Author's Notes: Yep, a Hikaru no Go coffeeshop AU. It's happening!

1. I cannot sing the praises of my beta, Caminante, far or loudly enough. First of all, I have her to thank for even knowing about coffeeshop AUs! She has since spent countless hours researching and sending me coffee articles and videos, expertly and meticulously fine-tuning and fact-checking my drafts, brainstorming scenes with me, and even combed through cheesy European travel videos all to support this fic. This even synced perfectly with our vacation to Japan where we visited coffee shops to research for this fic! I don't exaggerate when I say we have spent hours every day chatting and working on this fic together and I can't imagine a more supportive beta or friend. Notably, she has endured all my horrible, terrible puns… and there were a latte of them. This project is really a tribute to the best and crackiest parts of our friendship.

2. Caffè Florian was founded in 1720 and is the oldest coffeehouse in Italy still in operation. It's fascinating and stunningly gorgeous and I desperately want to conduct some in-person research one day.

3. There really are Japanese Barista Championships. The winner gets to compete in the World Barista Championship! The 2007 championship was held in Tokyo, Japan.

4. Just like pro go players, master baristas are ranked as 1-cup, 2-cup, and so on...

5. Okay, I'm kidding about that last one.

6. Follow me on Tumblr for more HikaGo and coffee puns! My username is hestialuna.


	2. Chapter 2

"Ow!"

"Shindou! Did you burn yourself again?! I told you not to heat it for that long!" Waya grabbed the metal steamer pitcher as Hikaru plunged his hand under the tap.

"I learned how to steam milk properly on my first try," Ochi remarked, smirking as he pulled an espresso shot next to him. "It's not that hard."

"You are no help, Sai!" Hikaru hissed as he carefully dabbed his burning palm on a towel. "Also, stop flying around behind the counter. It's really distracting."

_Sorry, I will try to stop. I sincerely wish I could be of use!_

After burning himself for the fifth time this morning, Hikaru was in a sour enough mood to almost drink lemon juice out of spite. They had discovered that while Sai could not feel or move objects, they could both smell and taste the same things. Hikaru was not happy about gaining quite a bit of extra weight since helping Sai catch up on several hundred years of culinary advancement. This was not making things better.

Despite the rocky start, steaming milk was still an exciting change from manning the register, and definitely better than clearing tables and sweeping, which was all Hikaru had been doing so far during his first month at Honinbrew. He watched in envy as Nase carefully poured a frothy white heart on a latte and handed it with a wink to a customer.

Hikaru was glad that he'd ended up at Honinbrew. It wasn't as fancy or as popular as Café Meijin, but the baristas were all around his age, which made Hikaru happy, and serious about making coffee, which satisfied Sai. Unlike Café Meijin, which looked like it came from a musty oil painting, Honinbrew was bright and modern with a high loft ceiling, gleaming metal and wood tables, and a changing gallery of work from a local art school. Behind the counter, there was a large chalkboard circled in fairy lights where the baristas wrote the weekly specials.

He was even starting to like the taste of coffee, but only with plenty of milk and sugar, much to Sai's exasperation. Morishita-sensei, the owner, had decades of experience and was a demanding boss. But unlike a certain purple-sweater wearing coffee snob, he had a sense of humor.

That jerk... Hikaru felt his ears burn with shame as he remembered Touya looking at him with disgust and his own empty boast afterward.

_When do we get to make coffee, Hikaru?_

"I told you I don't know, so quit asking!" Hikaru grumbled. Even if he did want to prove himself to Touya, it was going to take forever at this rate.

_When is it lunch time? Can we please get 'burgers' again?_

"Arghhhhhh!"

"Having trouble there?" Isumi patted Hikaru's shoulder with a sympathetic smile. "It took me a long time to learn how long to run the steamer too. You'll get the hang of it. Here, let's try it again."

Hikaru felt his anger diffuse as he watched the ever-patient assistant manager calmly refill the frothing pitcher with cold milk. Isumi had just graduated from college, but he seemed like he was much older. Maybe it was because he was so experienced. Waya had said that Isumi had been working here since he was in high school.

"You have to heat it until it just starts getting too hot to hold, like so. We can practice again after the lunch rush. Could you hop back on the register for now?"

"Sure, no problem!" At least _that_ was something he could do well. Hikaru had discovered quickly that he had a knack for chatting with customers and remembering their usual orders.

"Hey Kaga! Dirty chai?" The lanky, spiky-haired teaching assistant shot him a thumbs-up as he sprawled across a window seat.

"Caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream to go, coming up!" Hikaru quickly scribbled "Mitani" on a paper cup and passed it to Waya.

"Kishimoto, black coffee as usual?"

"Good to see you again, Hotta-san! Large caffe latte?"

"I'll need a double shot today, Shindou-kun. Have to finish this chapter by tonight..."

"Sure thing!"

As Hikaru closed the cash drawer, a motorcycle roared to a stop near the entrance to the coffee shop. A large bearded man slammed open the door.

"BOY DO I NEED COFFEE TODAY!" He strode up to the counter. "HEY KID! What do ya recommend?"

Hikaru gulped and turned to Sai.

_Hmm... how about a large iced Americano with a bit of lemon?_

Hikaru thought that sounded weird, but he followed Sai's advice. As he was leaving, the man came over to Hikaru and gave him a hearty whack on his back. "Lemon, huh? Never would have thought of that, but it sure hit the spot! Name's Tsubaki. Let's go out for lunch sometime, kid! Soba, my treat!"

Hikaru grinned.

Soon the shop was mostly empty, save for a group of students huddled together with laptops. Sai tucked himself among them and watched the glowing screens with fascination. Hikaru eyed the steamer again.

"Okay, let's do this," Hikaru muttered. He squared his shoulders, filled the pitcher, dipped the steamer wand in, and listened to the milk start to hiss. It was just hot milk; this shouldn't be so hard. He felt the cup grow warmer. Just a bit more...

"Shindou!"

Touya Akira burst into the quiet shop, causing Hikaru to spill hot milk all over the counter.

Touya was wearing a suit for some reason and it didn't fit him very well. His shoulder-length hair was loose and he was breathing hard. Hikaru realized that he must have been running.

He stood paralyzed, holding the dripping pitcher.

"Touya Akira from Café Meijin?! What are you doing here?" Waya snarled, brandishing a tea towel. "Come to check out the competition?"

Touya ignored him. "Shindou. Is it true that you work here?"

"Err... yes?"

Touya looked around him, confused. "You're working at such a small café, with your skills! Why?"

"Hey!" Waya shouted.

"What's it to you?" Hikaru replied hotly. He didn't know what Touya was getting at, but just seeing his face made Hikaru want to punch things.

"Can I talk to you please? Outside?"

Hikaru followed him to a shady patch across the street. They were standing underneath a cherry blossom tree that had just bloomed and the petals wafted softly over them. The wind picked up just as Touya began to speak.

"Your ristretto."

"My what?"

"Don't play dumb," Touya snapped. "How did you make it? The most difficult, unforgiving espresso known for precise control and _restraint_ and for _you_ of all people to... It couldn't have been luck. It's not possible."

The gears clicked into place. Hikaru smirked.

"Ahhhh yes, the ristretto. So you tried it after all? Not as bad as you thought it would be?"

"_Yes_ I tried it, and Ogata-san did too. We were... surprised to say the least. You have to show me how you made it. In fact, I would like to offer you a position at Café Meijin."

Hikaru stretched his arms up, bracketed his hands behind his head, and fully savored the moment as he pretended to think. "Hmm... sorry Touya, but you're too late. I like it here at Honinbrew." He turned to leave.

Touya watched him grimly, or at least as grimly as one could be in a bright lavender suit covered in flower petals. "Wait! At least let me watch you make another one."

Sai really blew his mind, didn't he? That must have been some cup of coffee, thought Hikaru.

Hikaru opened his mouth to retort, but he looked into Touya's fierce gaze and felt it burn through him and to Sai inside the shop. He dropped his arms.

"I... can't do that." Sai could, but he couldn't. Hikaru couldn't even heat milk properly.

"Why not? Oh... I apologize for my rudeness earlier and I acknowledge your skill." Touya looked humbled, but Hikaru couldn't even enjoy it. His ears burned with shame. He was angry, angry at himself, and at Touya and his stupid purple suit, and at Sai for haunting him and making him care so much about a _beverage_.

"Well, you should be impressed. And maybe I'll tell you the secret of it one day." Hikaru forced a shrug and started to walk back.

"So there is a secret! I knew it! You have to tell me, Shindou!" Touya shouted.

Hikaru paused and looked over his shoulder. "Let's just say I used my... i-meijin-ation."

Touya winced as if physically wounded. Hikaru cackled as he darted back into the coffee shop.

* * *

Storefronts twinkled in the dusk as Hikaru and Sai slowly walked home. Sai looked worriedly at Hikaru. He had not spoken much since Touya's visit, even to him.

"Hey, Sai."

_Yes, Hikaru?_

"When we get back... can we practice making coffee with the moka pot I have? I'll stop and pick up some beans at the store. I should probably buy a proper grinder too."

Sai smiled. Something had changed. He had been wise to let Hikaru speak with the boy alone.

_Of course._


	3. Chapter 3

_**(Author Note: FFnet won't let me post links or images, which really enhance the reading experience of this fic because you guys are missing out on the embedded coffee art and research that I tried to include in here. I can't even properly credit my sources because of this limitation. I HIGHLY recommend doing a search for "Hikaru no Joe" posted on Archive of Our Own and read this fic there instead!)**_

"Akari, it's been such a long while! Come in! Are you here to see Hikaru?"

Akari beamed at the petite woman who opened the door. "Good morning! Is Hikaru home? I heard he moved out of the dorms."

Hikaru's mother sighed as she shut the door. "Yes, he said he didn't want to live with a roommate anymore. I'm happy to have him back home, but..." She paused to glance upstairs and lowered her voice to a whisper. "He's been acting very oddly lately."

"Really? What do you mean?" Akari whispered back.

"Well... he's changed. He keeps his door closed all the time and won't tell me what he's doing. I'm worried about him. Do you know if he's picked up some strange new interest?"

"Oh no, I haven't seen him in ages, but I don't think so. Can I go talk to him?"

"Of course, he's in his room. Hopefully he'll talk to you." She gave another familiar, long-suffering sigh as she walked back to the kitchen.

Akari felt a knot of trepidation start to form as she climbed the stairs. Even though they had known each other for years, Hikaru was starting to feel like a stranger to her. They barely saw each other after his weird freak-out in his grandfather's attic before school had started and now the semester was almost over.

She had heard that he was working at a coffee shop, so she wanted to tell him about her new job at Caffeine Haze, the student center shop. She had to admit that she was thinking of him when she signed up. She wanted to tell him about making the cheerleading team too, not that he would care.

As Akari neared the door, she noticed a strong, burnt odor coming from the room and could hear Hikaru speaking loudly. Did he have a visitor? Hikaru's mother would have mentioned something though.

"Ugh, I'm still trying to figure out the right dosage. It's a bit weak. I feel like it needs more of a kick."

Akari froze. The _right dosage_?

"Maybe I'm diluting it too much. Or I could grind it a bit more to get a stronger hit that way."

There was a pause, and Hikaru laughed.

"Well, Waya said he's keeping a fresh batch of some new stuff that just came in under the counter for me. It's supposed to be a really strong blend. Can't wait to try that out."

His mother's words echoed loudly in Akari's mind as her hand fluttered involuntarily to her chest: _"Do you know if he's picked up some strange new interest?"_

"Alright, time for another shot! Less water this time."

A machine whirred and hissed. "Ugh, I'm starting to feel shaky. This is the last one for today. I don't want my mom asking even more questions."

Akari's heart raced as she heard Hikaru's footsteps approach the door.

"_Yes_, I'm going to the bathroom again. Some of us have to worry about bodily functions, especially at the rate we've been going," Hikaru snapped as he flung open the door. "Akari?"

Akari was certain that she looked like a fish, as she could do little more than open and close her mouth in horror. Eventually she found her voice.

"Oh my god, _I knew it_. Doses? Hits? I can't believe you, Hikaru!"

"What? Oh god, Akari, chill out. It's not what you think."

"What else could it possibly be!? Your eyes are bloodshot!"

"Keep your voice down! Look, I was just talking shop. Coffee shop."

"What? _Coffee_? What are you talking about? Who were you even talking to?" Akari tried to crane her head to see around Hikaru, but he quickly slammed the door shut.

"No one, geez! Uh, I mean, I just… talk to myself sometimes. It helps me to think."

Hikaru's hands were twitching even more now and his eyes looked too bright and alert.

"Coffee. _Right_..."

* * *

_Maybe we should visit her after work. She seemed so upset._

Sai was floating anxiously behind the counter. Hikaru groaned as he grabbed a chilled glass and a container of ice cream from the freezer.

"No way. It was her fault for being nosy again and thinking weird things. And, I even promised to teach her a bit about making coffee, so I already apologized." Hikaru carefully placed one scoop of vanilla ice cream in the glass and drizzled chocolate syrup on top of it.

Sai frowned and floated closer to look at the glass. _"What are you making?"_

"Another genius invention," Hikaru said gleefully. "Watch."

He picked up a demitasse of fresh espresso and poured it over the ice cream.

"I AM BRILLIANT. This is the best thing ever," Hikaru crowed. "I shall call it the 'Shonen Jolt.' What do you think, Waya?"

There was an audible clunk as Waya's forehead hit the counter.

"Affo...affogato!" Waya managed to squeak as he looked at him with that particular blend of suppressed laughter, rage, and shock that only Shindou Hikaru was able to inspire.

"You forgot what?" Hikaru replied irritably.

"No, you fool, you just made an affogato!"

"I did not, I just invented this!" Hikaru said, outraged. He looked to Sai for confirmation. Sai could only smile apologetically.

_I am sorry, Hikaru, but that is indeed an affogato. Although it was rare in my time, since we did not have these ice chests._

"Oh." Hikaru said, visibly deflating.

Waya was still laughing as he clapped Hikaru on the shoulder. "It _is_ a good invention. I love affogatos. I just don't understand how you're able to pull such a good shot, but don't know what an affogato is. You're one of the strangest people I know, Shindou."

Hikaru laughed weakly.

"Anyway, don't feel too bad. Your groupies are waiting," Waya said, cocking his head towards the group of high school girls who had just walked into the shop. They spotted Hikaru and jostled each other towards him, giggling.

One girl finally went up to him. "Hi, we would all like to order lattes, please. We heard that you're known for drawing on the foam..."

"Sure thing! Do you all want latte art? It doesn't cost extra, but it'll take some time."

"Oh, we don't mind waiting! And you can draw whatever you'd like!"

"Okay, four lattes coming up then!"

The girls giddily flocked to a table. Hikaru started humming to himself as he warmed up the espresso machine.

"Four lattes, Sai! I wonder if I should do a theme. Seasons? That's boring though."

He looked carefully at the group of girls. Like many students, they had large fluffy key chains attached to their backpacks. He noticed that they all had characters from Snoopy in common. Perfect.

_Whatever you think is best._ Sai was perched by the window, staring outside.

Hikaru frowned, but kept his hands moving. By now, he could pull decent shots on his own. Sai would usually still watch and guide him, but lately he'd been opting to sit by the window instead, sighing to himself. It was just his luck to be haunted by a _moody_ spirit. He knew Sai must be bored, but he couldn't worry about that right now.

Hikaru pulled the first shot a bit too aggressively and over-extracted the espresso. Oh well... he could just add some sugar to that one and hope they didn't notice. Sai gave him a disapproving glance, but didn't move from his seat. Hikaru quickly steamed a pitcher of milk like a pro and poured it into the mug to form a smooth brown canvas. Finally, he carefully scooped some remaining foam from the pitcher onto the latte and used a spoon and a toothpick to start etching a design.

It had only been a month since Hikaru had started making latte art, but he'd already become bored of the usual leaves and hearts. He'd thought he was clever to think of drawing on the foam, but Waya had been quick to burst that bubble too. Everyone acknowledged that Hikaru was particularly good at it though, to the point that he was starting to have _fans_.

Hikaru set the cup aside and quickly got to work on the next three. The designs weren't complicated, but he had to move fast if he was going to serve them while they were still hot. If Sai noticed that he was pulling sloppy shots, he didn't say anything about that either.

The girls were ecstatic and flew into a flurry of chatter and camera photos. After cleaning up, Hikaru went over to Sai.

"Hey, how about takoyaki for lunch today? You haven't tried that yet," he asked.

Sai didn't say anything.

"Okay, I get it, you're upset. I'm sorry you don't care about latte art, but I don't really see what the problem is. You can still help me pull the shots. I just want to draw stuff on top of them."

_...I'm not upset about your drawings. But your focus is wrong. We will never create a God Shot if we continue this way._

"'God shot.' There it is again."

Sai turned to him angrily. _Yes Hikaru, the God Shot. That is why I am still in this world._

"Look, I just don't understand the appeal of analyzing the temperature of the cup, or tamping speed, or type of water, or size of the beans, or _whatever, _and pulling a million shots just to make one perfect cup of espresso. Alright? But like I said, you can make all the shots for me and experiment however you want before I work on the foam. So can you please chill out?"

_"Chill." Exactly._

Sai pointed at the girls who were now getting ready to leave.

_Half of them did not start to drink their lattes until they were already cold. None of them had any significant reaction to the quality of the coffee._

Hikaru huffed. "Well obviously, they didn't buy them for the taste."

_Yes, and you did not notice or care. Hikaru, it is not enough to follow my instructions and pull levers like a marionette. Espresso is not simply a base for foam. _

With a hint of a thoughtful smile, Sai continued. _That boy, Touya Akira... he understood. He was correct when he said that making coffee requires passion and is simultaneously a science and an art._

"Touya! I'd like to experiment with the tamping speed on his smug face," Hikaru snarled. "Anyway, I can't imagine _him_ making latte art. He has his style, I have mine. I don't need to copy him." _Or you_, Hikaru added to himself.

"Hikaru, you done over there? We need you at the counter," Isumi called out.

Ochi was wiping down the espresso machine when Hikaru returned, still steaming.

"What's on your mind? Not that I care."

"Stupid Touya Akira. I'd like to show him one of my lattes and see him try to do better."

Ochi snorted. "Seriously? Because of your latte art? It's novel, I suppose, but don't kid yourself. Touya Akira is on a completely different level than you."

When Hikaru didn't reply, Ochi casually added, "I heard you interviewed at Café Meijin first and got rejected. I also heard a ridiculous rumor that he tried to offer you a job later."

"Oh yeah, he did. It felt good to turn him down... heh. Thanks for reminding me about that! I feel a bit better now."

Ochi's face turned purple but before he could speak, a pair of women walked into the shop. They saw Hikaru and rushed over to him.

"Good afternoon, ladies. How can I help you?"

"Are you the latte art guy?" one of them asked breathlessly. Hikaru grinned.

"Yes, I am! Would you like to pick out a design for your lattes?" He took out a slim photo album from beneath the counter.

The woman blushed. "Actually, I have a request..." She started to pull a photo from her purse and stopped. "This is so silly."

"Oh come on, Ichikawa, we came all this way already," the other woman slapped her friend's arm lightly.

Ichikawa took a deep breath and handed Hikaru a photo. When Hikaru gaped at it in silent horror for a long moment, she blushed even more. "Please don't misunderstand, he's just a sweet kid who works at the coffee shop by my go salon. He's very fond of coffee, so I thought it would be cute to get him a latte portrait."

Hikaru was no longer surprised that he had a ghost haunting him. He must have lost his mind a long time ago. That was the only logical explanation.

Ochi lost it too. He gave up trying to suppress his laughter and went to hide in the bathroom.

Even Waya noticed that something was up. "Hey Hikaru, what's the... Touya Akira?"

"Is it... is it alright?" Ichikawa asked. "I hope it isn't too strange..."

"Oh no, it's fine," Hikaru heard himself say. "Feel free to take a seat while you wait."

Hikaru felt his shoulders tense as he warmed up the espresso machine. He imagined Touya looking at him in disgust. The last time they'd met, Hikaru couldn't even steam milk yet. He'd improved a lot since then, but still... was he good enough to face Touya now?

Sai had started hovering over his shoulder. Hikaru thought he would be amused, but instead he looked at Hikaru with quiet understanding.

"Sai... you brew," he said.

_Are you sure, Hikaru?_

"...Yes."

Sai selected Honinbrew's darkest blend for Touya, a smoky, intense French roast with a hint of vanilla to balance the steamed milk. His steady voice fine-tuned Hikaru's motions with precise, meticulous instructions. As always, following Sai's lead made Hikaru feel as if he were playing an instrument for the first time or performing an intricate dance where he didn't know all the steps.

After Hikaru poured in the steamed milk, Sai quietly stepped back. Hikaru stretched his fingers and confidently picked up a stirring stick. He bent over the latte and stared intently at the photo of Touya Akira.

Strangely, the photo didn't quite look like him. The polite, guarded smile reminded Hikaru of when they had first met at the interview. Hikaru carefully spread a dollop of white foam and began etching the delicate curve of Touya's jawline and neck. He had surprisingly soft features for someone so intimidating. Hikaru brushed a dab of chocolate syrup to sketch in his eyes and thought of Touya's intense focus when he prepared a shot. What would it feel like to have complete command over an espresso machine like that?

Using the edge of a sheet of paper as a guide, he dusted chocolate powder to fill in Touya's dark ponytail. Finally, he waved Ichikawa over.

"Oh my... he looks different, but more like himself somehow. That's exactly how Akira-kun is when he talks about coffee. Incredible! It's almost as if you know him!" Ichikawa exclaimed.

"We've met before," Hikaru stated flatly.

"Really? Are the two of you friends?"

"No," Hikaru paused. "He's my rival."

"Oh, I had no idea Akira-kun had a rival! He doesn't seem to be interested in people that way," Ichikawa laughed. "You both are so serious about your coffee! It's a shame you two don't play go instead. Thanks again."

She winked and left the shop with her friend. Hikaru slumped onto a stool.

"I'm guessing that one's not going in your latte art menu," quipped Waya. "Even though it's your best so far. You got his cheekbones and everything."

Hikaru graced him with a baleful glare.

_Hikaru... let me make you a drink._

Sai sat on the stool next to him. Hikaru groaned.

"Ugh, I'm exhausted. And if I drink any more caffeine, it's going to make drawing harder."

Sai had a strangely serious expression on his face and Hikaru was too tired to argue.

_First, we will need to melt some Gianduitto chocolate, the hazelnut praline._

Hikaru perked up. "Chocolate? This involves chocolate?"

Sai smiled. Following Sai's instructions, Hikaru placed a cup of chopped chocolate into a bowl of hot water and set it aside to melt while he frothed a small pitcher of cream and pulled a shot of strong espresso. He looked at the three small cups together and grinned at Sai.

_I suppose you can imagine what comes next!_

Hikaru poured the espresso into a small macchiato glass and layered the melted chocolate over it. Finally, he topped it with a frothy cloud of cream.

He had to marvel at the final result. Sai really outdid himself this time. He couldn't wait to try it. He raised the small glass and took a sip. The dark, bitter espresso slid through the sweet, nutty layer of chocolate and wrapped itself in soft, luxurious foam. Words... were suddenly meaningless. Hikaru took another sip, then another, and stared at the tiny empty glass with a kind of profound, humble reverence that he didn't even know he could possess.

"Did we... did we just make a God Shot?" Hikaru whispered. "Because I believe now."

Sai burst out laughing.

_No, that was not a God Shot. It is called a bicerin, or il bavareisa in my time. The chocolate lovers of Torino invented it as a drink for cold winter days such as this. _

Hikaru could only think to say, "But you don't even like chocolate. Or sweet drinks. How could you make this so well?"

_Because I made it for you,_ _caro._

Sai was giving him such a fond fatherly smile that it made Hikaru's heart ache and he looked down at the glass again. The three delicate layers had been elegant and refined, just like Sai. It was a simple, traditional drink with years of history. And yet, it was perfect for Hikaru too.

_Your world is filled with people who drink coffee like medicine. They buy them from the machine boxes on every street like little tins of sugar. Coffee is more than that. It's an art meant to be shared between people. It's the gift of stopping time for a moment, even while you gain the energy to begin the day fresh and renewed._

_Touya Akira has already created a God Shot. So have I. And so has his father. But we dream of the one we will create someday with more skill. A God Shot is simply the best shot of espresso you have ever made. You can't imagine making a better shot, and yet you know it exists in the future. And so you chase after it._

Hikaru nodded slowly to himself, and then gripped the small glass tightly.

"Me too. I will chase after him. I want to be good enough, maybe even better than Touya the next time we meet."

_Him?_

"Huh? Not him, it. The perfect cup of espresso. I bet Future Hikaru is an amazing barista!"

"You should focus on Current Hikaru for now," Waya broke in. "You still have a long way to go."

"Waya!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt you talking to yourself again. It's cool. I do the same thing with Isumi-san when I'm making complicated drinks, since he's better at them. You know, like 'What Would Isumi-san Do?'"

Hikaru could only stare at him, aghast.

"I saw you making that drink. I'm sorry to have to do this again, but that's actually a-"

"_Bicerin_, I know, although it used to be called _il bavareisa_ in 18th century Italy," Hikaru cut in irritably and grabbed his jacket. "I'm going to head out for lunch and get some fresh air. See you later."

"Wait! How the hell did you know that!?" Waya shouted after him. "Damn you, Shindou!"

Hikaru welcomed the icy blast of air as he stepped out of the coffee shop. It had started to snow and small flakes dusted over the pavement like vanilla powder. He was buzzing with new dreams and far too much caffeine, and he'd never felt better.

Coming up next: The Young Roasters Tournament

End Notes: (All links below are broken because of FFnet limitations, but proper credits are included on the version published on Archive of Our Own)

As always, my thanks to Caminante from the bottom of my over-caffeinated, erratically beating heart for her meticulous beta skills, cheerleading, and also deciding that it was Hikaru's fate to be a latte artist from the first chapter. :)

Credit for the latte art photo goes to Kazuki Yamamoto. Check out more photos of his amazing 3D latte artistry on his Twitter!

"**_God Shot_**: A term coined in the newsgroup and popular on the CoffeeGeek website and in some mainstream press, used to describe a shot of espresso that is the most perfect shot you have ever achieved. A "god shot" is a shot so good, it must have been blessed by God. This type of shot can improve as your level of skill improves. A "god shot" from three years ago may be your average shot today." (source: Coffee Geek)

If you thought go was obsessive, coffee is _right _up there. I didn't even have to make up a Hand of God equivalent for this AU.

More information about bicerins, plus photos.

If there are any latte artists reading this fic, this is my shameless plea for HikaJoe latte fan art. There is nothing in this world that would make me happier. Come on, Touya's mug in a mug, please make it happen!


	4. Macchina, Part 1: Sapiente (Side Story)

_**Author's Note: FFnet won't let me post links or images, which really enhance the reading experience of this fic because you guys are missing out on the embedded coffee art and research that I tried to include in here. I can't even properly credit my sources because of this limitation. I HIGHLY recommend doing a search for "Hikaru no Joe" posted on Archive of Our Own and reading this fic there instead!)**_

* * *

**Macchina**

**Part 1: Sapiente**

**(Hikaru no Joe Side Story)**

* * *

**Opening Notes:**

Wow, this Sai-focused prequel sure took a long time and got way longer than I expected! It's a big change in tone and focus from the main entry in the Hikaru no Joe Alternate Universe but it does directly relate to the main story.

You can also read this as a stand-alone, as long as you're okay with Sai being the ghost of an 18th century Italian barista, but it works best read after at least chapter 3 of the main Hikaru no Joe story. Just please be aware that this story isn't as fluffy as the Hikaru-focused main story and it touches on some serious themes. Please scroll to the end of the story for the end note if you want further (somewhat spoiler-y) information about potential triggers.

When I set out to explore Sai's back-story and to create an original character, a quasi-Honinbo Shuusaku, for my barista alternate universe I had no idea that it would turn out to be longer than the main story. I hope it works for you! Part II will be posted next week.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

* * *

"_Indeed, it is said that a good espresso depends on the four M's: Macchina, the espresso machine; Macinazione, the proper grinding of a beans; Miscela, the coffee blend and the roast; and Mano, the skilled hand of the barista, because even with the finest beans and the most advanced equipment, the shot depends on the touch and style of the barista."_

- "_The Long History of the Espresso Machine,"__ Smithsonian_

Venice, Italy

December 29, 1766

His last memory is a searing haze of red as his limbs clawed for air until the very end. He could never have guessed that this would feel so much like burning. Since childhood, he had found comfort in the deep, cool abyss of the Adriatic Sea, but now it fills his vision and his lungs with liquid fire. His only regret is that he will not be able to appreciate the final solace to come, the total absence of pain.

And yet, there is silence afterward. He drifts in the waves between the waking world and the realm of dreams, letting the heavy tide of slumber pull him again and again. The journey will not be long now. He will sleep until he reaches the shore.

If only he could… A familiar aroma wafts over him, summoning the new dawn as it has so many times before. He still wants to rest, but he has never been inclined to sleep in. It is time to work. As the scent unfurls and blooms with rich spices, he grows fitful. He knows he needs to finish his work, but he is so tired. Perhaps he will stay here until the impulse grows unbearable.

When Sapiente is finally propelled into the blazing light of day, he feels nothing but relief.

* * *

Torino, Italy

November 18, 1951

After the war, thousands rushed to the industrial cities of Northern Italy, where jobs and promises of wealth flowed freely from the open doors of its factories. The so-called "economic miracle" washed away the wreckage of post-war Italy, leaving in its wake new power plants, dams, miles of highways, and dreams of a bright future.

But, behind the closed door and drawn curtains of a particular, small apartment in Torino, a different storm has raged and passed unseen.

Rows of engineering textbooks, once sorted neatly by title, now cascade from a bookcase to the desk and onto a pile of grease-stained jeans. Twisted sleeves and electrical cords splay across the floor towards the bed where a thin, lanky man stirs fitfully in a tangle of bed sheets.

His face contorts as he dreams about another young man clutching his hand. The man's cold fingers grip his palm so tightly that they begin to shake. Angelo focuses on the watch adorning the arm that is clutching onto him and imagines that he can see its tiny gears clicking together in a reassuring cadence. Anything to obliterate the scene before him.

_Don't say it. Don't make it happen._

"Angelo… the doctor gave me some bad news."

His eyes snap open.

Angelo reflexively reaches for the small watch resting by his pillow and runs his thumb over its worn face, struggling to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and tries to drift back to sleep, but his heart is still racing.

It feels like night, but a glimmer of light shines from beneath the curtain. Angelo isn't sure when he last went to work, which means he's probably well over-due for an appearance at the clockmaker's shop. They haven't fired him yet, out of pity, but he doesn't want to test their patience. He knows he should get out of bed, and yet.

As much as Angelo tries to generate a sense of urgency, he can't move. It feels like time has stopped instead. Hasn't it, after all, since graduation? All of his classmates have moved back home to their families, made plans, started new jobs… Everyone has moved forward except for him.

Angelo wonders, not for the first time, what it might be like to be one of them. Acquiring a new job would have been easy. Despite his grades plummeting in the last weeks before graduation, he still received top honors and numerous job offers, which he ignored. He imagines a different version of himself walking into a house, one that he would have spent many years living in, and greeting the smiling faces of two people who also would have known him for many years. It must be reassuring to have that familiarity. It probably wouldn't feel completely alien if one were used to it.

All that is left of the closest thing that Angelo ever had to a real home now fits neatly inside four small sealed cartons by his bed. Martino didn't have any family to speak of either, so the university had allowed Angelo to keep his meager belongings after he passed away.

Angelo would wonder, in the years to come, what had made this _the _day. He suddenly bolts upright and finds himself staring at those boxes. He notices a small knife among a pile of scattered tools and cigarette butts nearby.

A moment later, it's in his hand and he drives it into the closest box.

Pieces of cardboard scatter and fly to the ground. After months of treading warily around the boxes and avoiding their existence through a combination of sleep and cigarettes, Angelo is shocked at how viciously he now tears them open.

A small moka pot lies at the top of the largest box. Angelo gingerly picks it up. Martino had bought it at an antiques shop and had promised that he would make him coffee every morning when they moved in together after graduation. He knew that coffee was the only thing that could get Angelo out of bed.

He opens the tiny chamber. To his surprise, a bit of water gleams on the bottom and white salt is crusted on its sides. Disgusted, Angelo reaches inside and scratches at the salt. A plume of coffee-scented vapor bursts forth, knocking him against the wall.

The haze gradually solidifies into the shape of a young man.

Angelo is too stunned to scream. The ghostly figure seems equally as shocked to see him. He floats several feet off the ground wearing breeches and a long white coat with a violet waistcoat underneath. Angelo grasps onto this piece of data and identifies him as definitely Italian, possibly from the 18th century. His long black hair is pulled into a low ponytail and he has remarkably striking features. Angelo would have thought he was a woman had it not been for the breeches.

The ghost seems to recover somewhat and makes a hasty bow.

_Buongiorno! You can see me, can't you? It... seems that I've returned to the world of the living._

Angelo stares at him blankly as his breathing speeds up and his hands grow numb. The figure is still speaking, but Angelo can't hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears. It's happening again, this inexplicable, wretched loss of control. His vision narrows to the worried face looming over him. Wide luminous eyes, pale glowing skin, and red lips that seem almost lifelike.

"I'm hallucinating. This cannot possibly be happening. I need to reset," he thinks frantically, as he slumps down onto the bed and shakily throws an arm over his eyes. He tries to catch his breath, but darkness quickly overtakes him.

* * *

Sapiente watches the engineer hunched over his worktable with barely concealed impatience.

His face is obscured by a mop of dark blonde hair and a magnifying eyepiece. A hollowed clock lays in front of him as his hands place a delicate gear with light, precise movements.

Upon waking, Angelo had immediately bolted out of the apartment and to this clockmaker's shop. To both of their surprise, Sapiente was able to join him.

Sapiente is starting to feel desperate. Angelo believes him to be a figment of his broken mind and pays him as little attention as possible. Why was he given this second chance to complete his work, only to be bound to someone who apparently has no interest in coffee, or him? Was this punishment for what he had done?

* * *

"What did you say your name was again?"

The pale figure is standing mournfully by the window. At the sound of Angelo's voice, it starts in surprise and whirls to face him. Angelo suppresses a shudder.

_Sapiente Francesconi, _it replies cautiously.

Angelo has never known anyone by that name. And the specter doesn't resemble anyone he knows. He would remember seeing that face before. Interesting.

After ignoring its presence all day in the failed hope that it would disappear on its own, Angelo is forced to take action. The sooner he accepts his current circumstances, the sooner he will be able to analyze the situation clearly.

Angelo spends the next several hours interviewing his hallucination and becoming helplessly fascinated by the contours of his own madness. This_Sapiente_ is apparently from Venice, a city that Angelo has never visited nor ever cares to visit. Not only that, he can rattle off Venetian landmarks and the news from his time period, which, he claims, was the mid-1700s. Angelo marvels at the sheer quantity and detail of this latent knowledge that he must have absorbed from newspapers and past history classes in order to manifest this hallucination. He will have to visit the library later to verify its accuracy.

The most baffling revelation is Sapiente's _obsession_ with coffee. He claims to have worked at a famous Venetian coffeehouse called Caffè Florian and passionately rants about the roasts and drinks he had invented, his personal philosophy on brewing, the drink preferences of the various patrons who had frequented his coffee shop, and his claim that he has returned from the spirit world to prepare something called the "Divine Brew."

Torino is famous for coffee and Angelo partakes in a morning cappuccino and several daily espressos like any other Italian, but he doesn't harbor much personal interest in it otherwise. He wracks his memory trying to uncover some metaphorical link, some childhood trauma, anything that could explain such an all-consuming interest in coffee. Why on earth would any hallucination of his claim to be a ghost infatuated with _coffee_ of all things?

Angelo realizes that he hasn't eaten all day. He opens his small refrigerator and takes out a stale piece of bread and a block of cheese. He eyes the cheese closely before carefully paring off several suspicious dark spots. Sapiente is curiously flitting through the small apartment and exclaiming at various appliances when Angelo takes a bite.

Sapiente freezes in mid-air and gives him a look of such extreme horror that Angelo almost chokes.

_That is foul! What is the matter with you?! You're as Italian as I am! Eat real food, not that garbage!_

Angelo is surprised to find himself snickering.

"So you can taste, but not feel anything? What kind of a ghost are you?"

In response, the ghost only rests his chin on his hand while Angelo quietly processes this new information. The ghost begins to smile and slowly looks up. His wide eyes seem to grow even larger.

_Is there a restaurant nearby?_

"No," Angelo said flatly. "I'm not taking you anywhere until I figure out what you are. Enough people think I'm crazy already."

_But we went to the clockmaker's shop together!_

"No one bothers me in there," Angelo snaps.

_It has been hundreds of years since I've had gnocchi! And...mio dio... espresso. Please could we just go out for dinner? I won't say a word and I'll sit far away. You won't even know I'm there._

"Whining is childish," Angelo growls. He opens his cabinets, foraging for other options. There are several cans of vegetables and sauce. That could work.

_You can't analyze all this clearly unless you have a proper meal. And you know you will be useless without real coffee._

Angelo snorts. "Clever. Then again, a figment of my imagination should be clever. I can use your moka pot to make coffee, although using it might make you disappear. I should try that, actually."

Sapiente glances warily at the moka pot, but clenches his fists.

_Please then, let me make coffee for you! If you are satisfied with it, then can we go to a restaurant and a caffè together?_

Angelo raises an eyebrow at this. "_You_'_ll_ make the coffee? And how exactly would that work?"

Sapiente flashes him a brilliant smile. _Just follow my instructions!_

* * *

Angelo stabs at the butter and sage drenched gnocchi with his fork and takes another bite. Sapiente sits across from him, radiant and beatific. They are outside at a small table surrounded by couples. A waiter stops to refill his water glass.

_I feel like I'm closer to heaven than I already am! Although this might be my version of hell, to be stuck here with you._

The gnocchi peace offering has clearly put Sapiente in a good mood. He chatters on, as full of life as a bodiless being can be.

Angelo is quiet while he struggles to process this new information.

Sapiente apparently possesses expert knowledge of a skill that is completely foreign to Angelo.

_He cannot be real_, Angelo thinks desperately. _Because if he's real… what about Martino?_

Suddenly the gnocchi feels thick and greasy in his throat. He swallows hard and pushes the plate away with a grimace. Sapiente objects, but Angelo tunes him out.

* * *

January 3, 1952

Another nightmare. Sapiente moves from his meditation by the window to rest a pale hand over Angelo's forehead as he thrashes in his sleep, wishing again that it wouldn't just pass right through him.

In a moment, Angelo will wake and stare at him, wild-eyed and uncomprehending. Later, he will take a small watch with him when he goes to the clockmaker's workshop. Broken timepieces will be pushed aside as Angelo takes the watch apart and reassembles it, again and again, in feverish, practiced motions like a rosary.

Sapiente fears it is his fate to bear this man's suffering. But there must be something he can do to help him.

* * *

March 27, 1952

_I cannot wait until you finally quit this disgusting habit completely._

Sapiente frowns as Angelo draws a cigarette, lights it, and takes a deep, shaky drag.

"I used to smoke at least twelve of these a day before I had the bad luck of getting stuck with you. Let me enjoy this one in peace without you making me sick again," Angelo retorts, raising the cigarette to his lips with shaking hands.

_How could you smoke that much? You know you're just poisoning your body. The way you cough when you sleep sounds horrible. Also, it dulls your senses, which you share now, in case you forgot._

"Well, I really don't think a man who killed himself is in a position to be giving anyone advice about their health," Angelo grits out. His breath catches in his throat, trapping the dark smoke. Sapiente is quiet as he coughs harshly.

"I probably shouldn't have said that," Angelo says after he recovers. "I don't even know if that's true. It's… just been my guess."

Angelo looks away and takes a quick, nervous puff. Was he worried that Sapiente might leave? Or that he might never leave? Sapiente begins to laugh tightly.

_I'm glad to be haunting someone clever. Even if we have nothing in common._

Angelo looks relieved. They sit in silence, watching the thin wisp of smoke from his cigarette trail towards the sky.

* * *

June 3, 1952

Angelo feels a slim hand caress his neck before looping around his waist. He smirks at his shorter friend and ruffles his hair. Martino bats his hand away and keeps talking, although Angelo can't quite make out the words.

They stop at their usual corner by the flower shop, where Angelo sees his apartment to the right. Martino withdraws his arm and gives him a friendly salute as he saunters towards his dorm further down the road. As Angelo watches, Martino begins to fade away.

He wakes up trembling and covered in sweat.

Sapiente is sitting near him. Angelo throws the covers off and turns to face the wall. He forces himself to take slow, measured breaths through the deafening pounding of his heart.

_Whoever it is you dream about, you must have cared for them very deeply._

Angelo touches the bare wall and exhales slowly through his mouth before answering.

"He was more to me than a brother, or family."

_A friend?_

The dream had seemed so real. He could still feel Martino's fingers lazily scratching at the curls on his nape before skimming lightly down his back.

"Not quite... but no one would understand."

_The world has not changed much then._

Sapiente's voice is almost inaudible, but it still makes Angelo's chest tighten. It has been nearly six months since he first appeared. How many times has he watched him wake up like this? Angelo starts to shiver as his skin cools, but he angrily kicks the blanket off his legs.

"Well, what about you? Why did you kill yourself anyway? Please don't tell me it was coffee-related." He laughs bitterly.

_Heartbreak. I did not wish to endure the pain any longer._

Seems like your plan didn't work, Angelo almost says, but doesn't.

Angelo's breathing echoes quietly in the small room.

"It still hurts then, after all this time?"

_I have carried it for hundreds of years, I suppose... and yet for me, it was only yesterday._

"A lover then?"

_Not quite a friend._

Angelo exhales sharply. For a moment, he wonders if he'll start laughing or crying, but it passes just as quickly.

"Seems like you found a solution. Would you recommend it?"

_Of course not. That would be awful. We might have to spend eternity together in that case._

Angelo laughs softly. "Or it'd be back to the moka pot for you."

He closes his eyes as a sudden wave of exhaustion sweeps over him.

"I've been thinking. It might be time for a new job."

_Oh?_

"I need to know how real you are," he slurs sleepily. "Or if I'm just completely cracked."

He can hear Sapiente sigh from behind him as he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

_Good night, Angelo._

* * *

August 3, 1952

Sapiente soars through the heavy glass door of Caffè Torino ahead of Angelo. Just as he has done every morning since they began working here, he whirls excitedly through the elegant coffee shop, gliding past the long polished wooden counter and sparkling chandeliers and up the grand curved staircase. It's just as beautiful to him as Caffè Florian in Venice, and there is the addition of the revolutionary _macchina_ that has changed everything Sapiente knows about coffee.

Sapiente floats back down to where the metal espresso machine, the centerpiece of his strange new existence, sits gleaming on the counter. Angelo is briskly wiping it down and readying it to make a morning cup before opening. He has tried to explain to Sapiente how the small parts inside move together to create an espresso with such intense aroma and flavor, but Sapiente is still convinced it is magic. This machine was created by a man named Gaggia in Milan less than a decade ago, but the results are worthy of praising the angels who had inspired its creation and had sent Sapiente here to see it for himself.

Angelo catches his gaze and imperceptibly nods at him. Sapiente happily floats over as he places a cappuccino cup on the machine's tray. A fresh puck of espresso is already inside the machine. Angelo pulls the lever and they both watch as the intoxicating dark liquid flows into the small cup.

Sapiente bursts into a wide grin and Angelo allows himself a small smile as well as he raises the cup to his lips. After a moment, they both look at each other and wince.

_Over-extracted..._

"Pulled too fast," Angelo mutters and pours out the rest of the shot.

Sapiente watches Angelo clear out the filter, grind a fresh puck of espresso, and pull again. A thin creamy layer of foam forms on top of the small cup. Sapiente was originally dubious of this "scum," but later realized that it was actually a new, integral sign of quality in espresso. Angelo takes another sip and sets it aside while he froths a pitcher of milk for the cappuccino.

It has only been a little over a month since Angelo began working here, but he is quickly learning the art of coffee-making. Sapiente's guidance has certainly helped, but Angelo is clearly a remarkable student who absorbs and perfects any technical knowledge shared with him.

Only the artistry is missing and Sapiente struggles to think of how to teach something that, to him, is as simple and essential as air.

Caffè Torino is one of the busiest coffee shops in the majestic Piazza San Carlo and the days fly by in an endless stream of customers and espresso. Angelo stands at the counter as still and remote as the eye of a storm while the other baristas bustle around him. He pulls one shot after another, each shockingly identical in quality, as if his hands were an extension of the pistons inside the machine. He has even acquired some regulars who appreciate a reliably good espresso, even though he never smiles and hardly ever speaks.

Of course, Angelo is only there to try to unravel the mystery of Sapiente's existence, but Sapiente tells himself that that shouldn't matter. He is glad to be a part of Italy's coffee legacy again, whatever the circumstances.

* * *

November 28, 1952

_How can you act like a machine all day? _ Sapiente sputters as he goes out the door ahead of Angelo and plants himself in front of him.

"I thought you agreed that you wouldn't talk to me during my only smoke break," Angelo snaps. He fumbles as he pulls out a cigarette and drops it. "_Merda_!"

_Sai che cosa… you are worse than a machine! At least a machine can't help being anything but a machine! And when else am I supposed to talk to you, since you just ignore me when we're inside?_

"_You know what?_" Angelo mocks. "_Sai_ this, _sai_ that. That's all I hear from you all day long and you wonder why I tune you out. Isn't this what you wanted? You came back from the dead because of coffee and now you're bored of it?"

_Sai che_- Sapiente catches himself and puffs his cheeks out in irritation.

Angelo's lips twitch despite himself as Sapiente attempts to stamp his foot.

"_You know what_… you're several hundred years old. You should really start acting like it," Angelo says as he flicks the stub of his cigarette to the ground and steps on it before heading back inside.

For months now, Sapiente has watched with mounting frustration while Angelo pulls espresso shots with the same lack of enthusiasm he would show pulling weeds from the ground. His espresso shots never vary. The crema is always exactly the same color and each cappuccino is identical to the next whether they are being served to a young woman with a sweet tooth or the old shopkeeper who always adds a bit of rum from his flask.

Worst of all are the endless orders of bicerin. Torino is famous for its chocolate, its coffee, and this sickly sweet combination of both. Sapiente has never enjoyed sweet drinks in any life and certainly not the constant smell of burnt sugar.

Angelo places a row of small, clear glasses on the counter and neatly assembles the layers of espresso, chocolate, and cream en masse. Judging from his pinched expression, Sapiente doesn't think he cares for them either.

Finally, the shop empties as night falls. It's Angelo's turn to close up and he finishes placing the last of the washed cups on the drying rack with more force than necessary.

_Wait. I want you to make a drink before we leave._

* * *

_He can't be serious_, Angelo thinks, groaning in disbelief and fatigue. "Really? Now?"

_Yes, now._

Sapiente is gazing at him steadily, which Angelo always finds more unnerving than his tantrums. Still, he sighs and gestures at the bare counter.

"Everything's turned off and closed. You should have said something earlier."

_Not everything._ Sapiente points at the coffee plunger tucked inside an open cabinet.

"We hardly ever use that," Angelo muses. But he fetches the glass pot with its fitted plunger and lid. It was invented not too long ago, in Milan in 1929, but it isn't widely-used at all. Nonetheless, Angelo likes it for its simple, elegant design.

"Fine. One cup. Since you've been in such a sour mood."

_Use the manual grinder to make two coarse tablespoons of the French roast._

"Yes, sir," Angelo mutters as he scoops the thick, crumb-like grounds into the glass pot and puts a kettle on the stove. When it boils, he lets the water cool for exactly 15 seconds before pouring it into the pot and fitting the plunger loosely on top.

They haven't made coffee together like this in a while, not since Angelo learned how to make the shop's menu flawlessly and Sapiente started complaining that Angelo wasn't _excited_ enough when he prepared coffee. Angelo respects Sapiente's knowledge, but he doesn't have patience for anyone, dead or alive, who tries to lecture him about things like feelings or intuition. It had created a distance between them… as much as there could be in their case.

After five long minutes, Angelo slowly presses the plunger down, letting the metal filter push the grounds to the bottom.

The coffee is a rich, glossy black. As he lifts the cup to his face, the intoxicating, smoky aroma surges into his lungs as satisfyingly as a freshly lit cigarette. He takes a sip. The flavor is so intense that it hits him like a bracing January wind, even as it scorches his tongue.

He _loves_ it.

Angelo stares at Sapiente with something like wonder. He isn't sure exactly what it is, because he's never felt this way before.

_Good, isn't it?_

"It's… not another goddamn bicerin, that's for sure."

Sapiente lets out a peal of laughter. Angelo grins too.

"This is what's been missing," Angelo says. "But of course you knew that. _Sai_ this, _sai_ that."

Sapiente only beams at him in response.

Angelo downs the rest of the coffee before it cools and quickly washes the plunger and cup.

"All right. Let's go home, Sai," he says as he flicks the lights off and opens the door.

Sapiente glows faintly inside the darkened coffee shop as he looks at him, startled.

"Yeah, you. Sai, Mister Know-it-All," Angelo smirks and cocks his head towards the street outside. Sai smiles at his new nickname, and happily soars through the door like a shooting star.

_Yes... let's go home!_

* * *

**End Notes:**

Trigger warnings: This story includes the death of a major (original) character at an untimely age from a degenerative illness (in chapter two) and brief discussions of suicide and homophobia.

Wow, stated like that, this story sounds so dark! I swear, it's only a teen-rating and none of these topics are lingered over, but I'd rather be overly cautious in my warnings than to accidentally cause someone distress, especially since the main Hikajoe story-line is so lighthearted.

I've endeavored to write a story that is more bittersweet than full-on sad, but Hikaru no Go does start with a goban stained with Shuusaku's blood and I found it impossible to expand upon Sai's back-story without touching on some serious themes.

My supreme thanks to Caminante for her expert editing, footnote and research support, mutual positive reinforcement spirals, and being the best beta and friend ever. Without her Romance language skills complimenting my Japanese skills, this story wouldn't have an elaborate Italian-to-Japanese name pun. And really, isn't making bilingual puns the main reason why anyone studies a foreign language?

* * *

**Footnotes**: Please search for "Hikaru no Joe" on Archive of Our Own for proper crediting with links.

In case it wasn't clear in the body of the story, _Sai che cosa_ means "you know what?" in Italian and _sai_, from the verb _sapere_, means "you know."

Angelo's name is an homage to Angelo Moriondo, the inventor of the espresso machine.

Instructions on how to brew the smoky French roast that Sai prepares for Angelo can be found here

.


	5. Macchina, Part 2: Sai (Side Story)

**Macchina**

**Part 2: Sai**

* * *

_Here the doge dropped the golden ring into the clear still waters of the Adriatic, plighting the troth of Venice in these words: "We wed thee, O Sea, in token of our true and eternal dominion over thee."_

_- M. B. Synge, "The Discovery of New Worlds"_

* * *

Venice, Italy

December 1957

The midday sun blazes down on the crowded Piazzetta San Marco, where a tall, quiet man sits at a small table amid a flurry of people and pigeons.

He is alone, but he sips a glass of wine with a private smile. The gilded domes of the grand Basilica San Marco loom over him to the left and the glittering blue waters of the Adriatic sprawl enticingly to his right, yet his gaze remains gently fixed on the empty seat across from him.

Visible only to him, a beautiful young man in a long white coat and violet waistcoat smiles back. Against the backdrop of ancient marble columns and churches, he almost doesn't seem out of place, but the sun burns through him and he casts no shadow.

_Almost done? I can't wait to walk across the Rialto!_

"Just resting my legs. It's hard to keep up with you. You have too much energy for a ghost."

_Well, you're not as young as you used to be either, _Sai replies cheekily.

Angelo grins and takes a final sip before getting up. After five years at Caffè Torino, they had finally made time to travel to Sai's hometown of Venice for a vacation. Angelo usually detests traveling, but being with Sai has changed that, as it has so many other things. Nothing could compare to having an 18th century Venetian ghost as his private tour guide.

As they stroll through the busy market street, they stop to take in the view of the Rialto Bridge as the sun begins to set. Warm amber light suffuses its delicately arched windows and Sai sighs contently in a rare moment of silence.

"How about we take a ride on a gondola?" Angelo asks.

Sai lights up. _Yes! I love gondolas, but I didn't think you would want to go by yourself._

"We can hop on with a group. Anyway, I'm not going by myself. I'm going with you."

They climb aboard a slim boat filled with two other couples. They look at Angelo strangely, but he doesn't seem to notice their stares. Sai perches on the end of the boat facing Angelo as the gondola slowly makes its way under the bridge.

The lamps hanging outside the shops along the Grand Canal begin to twinkle and glisten on the water as night falls. They sail past the Ca'Rezzonico Palazzo and the Doge's Palace. Sai looks around in silent rapture with his hands clasped to his heart. As they pass under the Bridge of Sighs, a wistful smile illuminates his face. Angelo has made a quiet study of Sai's changing expressions over the past six years and yet they always surprise him.

Afterward, they walk back to the Piazza San Marco and pause at the entrance to Caffè Florian. It is bustling with patrons, but Angelo can still glimpse the chandeliers and plush red velvet seats inside.

"What do you think? Are you ready to go in yet?"

Sai hesitates as he glances at the stained glass windows. He shakes his head.

_I'm sorry. I'm worried that if it's too different from what I remember, I will disappear._

"Well, that's fine then."

_You don't think I am being ridiculous?_

"I don't know how this works either. Better not to risk it though," Angelo replies. "Let's head back to the hotel."

Sai trails behind him, glancing longingly back at the coffee shop. Angelo cuts a path through the crowds of couples meandering through the piazza holding hands. Even in the most beautiful city in the world, Angelo walks quickly with his hands in his pockets and his eyes focused straight ahead. He suddenly stops to look behind him.

"Sai?"

_I'm here_, Sai calls out and hurries to his side.

"Good. There are too many people here and I don't want to lose you," Angelo mutters. Inexplicably, Sai laughs.

* * *

Angelo lays sprawled on the bed with the sheets kicked to the ground, snoring loudly. The long day of sightseeing must have completely exhausted him. Sai is glad for his sound sleep.

Rest would be nice, if it were possible for Sai. The window overlooks a moonlit sea of rooftops and a clear night sky. They are staying in Dorsoduro, away from the crowded San Marco and Rialto districts. Sai slips down the stairs, through the private garden, and out onto the quiet street.

Moments later, he is crossing the Accademia Bridge towards San Marco. When he reaches the Piazza, he hesitates once more in front of the entrance to Caffè Florian before continuing on to the smaller Piazzetta.

Two columns with the patron saints of Venice stand guard at the edge of the sea. Sai begins to move closer to them, to the water, but he is filled with dread.

The beauty of Venice springs from her decay, just as roses wither and distill into a pungent perfume. In the still night, the two pillars cast long, malevolent shadows across the empty concrete square.

At the sight of them, he is no longer the Sai of this world. He is Sapiente, cowering before them as so many others like him had done before.

Sapiente thinks back to what had been recent history in his time—that between the 13th and 16th century, this piazza was the site of countless public executions in a time when Venice was synonymous with ruthlessness rather than romance.

By the 18th century, Sapiente had not been in danger of being burned or decapitated in front of the winged lion of San Marco for his _perversion_, but he was still thrown into the streets for mistakenly believing that the son of Caffè Florian's owner returned his feelings. With his reputation and livelihood ruined and his heart broken, he had come here to share the fate of those before him.

He had been given a second chance, as Sai. But for what purpose?

As glad as he is to show Angelo his Venice, Sai cannot help feeling ill at ease with how much it has changed. He thought he was used to this new world by now, excited by it even, but he did not believe Venice could really change so much from his memories.

It's clear to him now. He no longer belongs here.

Sai backs away from the water and restlessly wanders towards the main square. He thinks of Angelo gently telling him that it was time to leave his job at Caffè Torino before showing him their train ticket to Venice. Angelo, who mastered coffee-making for Sai's sake before moving on. Angelo, who might always have to sit alone at tables.

Sai stands in front of Caffè Florian again. He hesitates for a moment before passing through the glass door.

Inside, there is a small foyer leading to rooms with richly frescoed walls, rows of marble-topped tables, and red velvet seating. Sai moves slowly through the four darkened rooms, each one gorgeously decorated with gold inlaid and oil paintings. One of the rooms contains large portraits of several familiar faces. Here, Carlo Goldoni had let his espresso grow cold as he edited _Gl'innamorati_ and Casanova had given him a wink whenever he slipped into a booth with a new conquest. Another room is curiously adorned with East Asian motifs and yet another is covered in tiny, miraculous murals.

It looks nothing like his memories, but Sai is, without a doubt, back at Florian's. He can almost hear the faint conversations of noblemen, merchants, artists, and lovers echoing in its walls and the clatter of cups being set on marble tabletops. The oldest and most elegant coffee shop in Italy was still here, changed and yet unchangeable. Just like him.

A massive and gleaming espresso machine sits proudly at the center of the counter with rows of neatly stacked and pristine small coffee cups on top of it. If only he could brew coffee at Florian's again with this machine! Sai suddenly imagines Angelo in a blue waistcoat offering him a steaming demitasse and laughs.

So much had happened here. So much and yet, sitting here in the darkened interior, Sai's thoughts inevitably return to the image of two men standing close to each other, silhouetted by the light of dawn. He was so young then, and so impulsive.

Lost in his memories, Sai sits quietly at a small table as the first rays of sunlight begin to stream across the quiet plaza and through the tall glass windows.

Suddenly, he hears a frantic tapping sound and looks up.

Angelo is waving his arms and mouthing something at him from the window. Sai hurriedly rushes outside.

To Sai's shock, he sees that Angelo is still wearing his pajamas and his thick brown hair is matted on one side.

"Oh, thank God," Angelo gasps as he struggles to catch his breath. He furiously rakes a hand through his hair as the wild gleam of panic slowly fades from his eyes.

"Why would you do that! Where the hell were you?" Angelo shouts, scattering several nearby pigeons.

_I… I was here. I didn't realize I would be gone for so long. Did you have another dream?_

"No, I didn't have a goddamn dream!" Angelo snaps. He takes a deep breath. "I woke up, and you weren't there. I remembered what you said about coming here, and you've been acting strangely, and I just thought…"

Belatedly, Sai remembers their earlier conversation about his fear that he might disappear.

_I'm so sorry, Angelo. I hadn't considered how it would seem if you woke up and I was missing._

"_Uffa_! You can be a real jerk, you know that?" Angelo storms. "How about a warning next time? I didn't even know you could travel that far on your own."

For a moment, Sai forgets and reaches out towards him. He lets his arm drop.

_I'm so sorry. I'll never do it again. I went inside, but I didn't disappear after all!_

Angelo winces. "Just… stop talking. Let's go."

He shivers and begins to stalk towards the bridge. Sai circles him anxiously and apologizes until they reach the hotel.

* * *

Angelo comes down with a cold and spends the next several days inside the hotel. He can't tell which is worse: the pounding in his head or Sai's wailing insistence on blaming himself. On the last day of their trip, they make their way to Caffè Florian for a cappuccino.

He takes a sip.

"Not bad."

"_Not bad"! How can you say that? This is the oldest coffee shop in Italy! You will not find better coffee anywhere else in the world!_

Angelo shrugs. "I'm pretty sure you can make a better one. And by you… I also mean me."

… _I am not going to respond to that._

* * *

Milan, Italy

April 1958

Two large espresso machines lay splayed open on Angelo's table at the Faema workshop, surrounded by bits of metal, various small wrenches, and a lone lever. Sai is both horrified and fascinated.

_What does that blue tube do?_

"Ah. When the lever is pulled, the pistons create pressure while heated water runs through this pump," Angelo says as he reaches inside the machine's hollowed interior and pulls out a thick tube to show to Sai.

They had moved to Milan just a few months ago after Angelo was hired as an engineer at Faema, a manufacturing company that specializes in espresso machines. Angelo quickly immersed himself in his new work and soon began bringing home bits of machinery and tinkering with them late into the night. Most of Angelo's few belongings still lay in boxes strewn haphazardly throughout the small apartment.

_Hmm… I have to say, I prefer the level of control one has with the lever group machine. I can't quite trust the other one that claims to auto-make espresso._

"Auto_mate_. Right. Then again, I hear Cimbali is starting to make hydraulic group machines with a heat exchanger, which would mean consistent ease of use _and_ better thermal balance…"

Sai sniffs contemptuously. _Ease of use is not a virtue. If more skills are required from the barista for better quality, so be it._

"God Shots with almost every pull. Can you imagine that?" Angelo excitedly pushes his hair away from his face, leaving a streak of black grease on his forehead.

_I wouldn't use that term so carelessly!_

A few of Angelo's new coworkers look at him curiously, but by now most of them were getting used to his habit of talking to himself. His supervisors paid it little attention and placed him in a quiet area. All geniuses were a bit eccentric after all.

"The ideal situation though, would be a machine that perfectly controls as many variables as possible placed into the hands of a master barista…" Angelo trails off as he begins to excavate the gutted machines with delight.

Sai perches at the edge of the table and asks as many questions as Angelo has the patience to answer. Sometimes he just listens to the stream of words that Angelo mutters to himself like a litany sung in a foreign language: _grouphead, thermosyphoning, pre-infusion chamber._

He does miss working with Angelo at a coffee shop. But, although this new world and its semantics seem strange, Sai knows that he and Angelo are at the center of the next revolution in coffee. And that is exactly where he wants to be.

Angelo is still musing aloud as they head back home. Sai observes the passing fashions on the street. Several women are wearing cropped jackets with embroidered lapels that look similar to the cut of his justacorps. He also sees a few men with long, loose ponytails. Imagine, him being stylish in Milan!

"Sai? Sai!"

_Sorry! Yes?_

"I just wanted to say… thank you," Angelo says, not quite meeting his gaze. "I promise you, we'll make a new God Shot together through my work here. The best one anyone has ever had."

Sai smiles. _I'll hold you to that._

* * *

Milan, Italy

August 1960

"I know that look. You have a secret. Tell me or I'll make you tell me," Martino says with a mischievous smile.

Angelo takes a sip of his cappuccino and kicks him lightly under the table.

"If I'm such an open book, you tell me."

"I want to hear you say it."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Martino sighs and traces a finger around the edge of his empty coffee cup. "Well, he seems nice. You found someone else who can put up with you."

"I didn't have much of a choice in the matter," Angelo shrugs.

"Consider yourself lucky. You're not exactly Prince Charming."

"You liked me well enough. Said so often enough when you were still alive," Angelo smirks.

"I really did. It would have been nice to hear you say it back though. Before it was too late," Martino crumples his napkin and tosses it lightly at Angelo.

Angelo loses his grip on the cappuccino cup in his hand. It wobbles unsteadily and crashes on to the table before he can take a drink.

When Angelo opens his eyes, he sees Sai's concerned face hovering over him. He instinctively reaches out, but his hand grasps only at air.

* * *

Torino, Italy

December 1965

Sai beams happily at Angelo's E61 espresso machine displayed proudly on the counter at Caffè Torino.

"We can't tell you how much we enjoy this machine," the manager says to Angelo fondly and with a bit of awe. "It's completely changed the way we make coffee. We're all so proud of you."

"That was the idea," Angelo replies. After Sai glares at him, he adds, "It's very kind of you to say so."

"And it's all thanks to this Sai, is it?" the manager chuckles.

_Ah! Yes?_

"Funny, I don't recall you mentioning him before. Then again, you did keep to yourself. Please, let me make you a coffee."

"Actually, if you don't mind, may I make one myself?"

"Of course!"

Angelo smiles and pulls out the portafilter.

When Angelo introduced his design for an improved pump-driven espresso machine in 1961, it completely transformed the world of espresso-making to the extent that, within just a few years, the previous piston-lever machines became obsolete and Faema became a leader in espresso machine production.

The day it debuted, Angelo made Sai the God Shot he had promised him.

The company had even held a special dinner in his honor and invited the media. In his speech, Angelo credited the world's most skilled master barista for teaching him everything he knows about coffee. Within days, Espresso Weekly profiled the brilliant young inventor and the coffee world was abuzz with speculation about the whereabouts and identity of the mysterious Sai.

Even now, Sai is delighted whenever he hears someone say his name.

Angelo's hand trembles slightly as he levels the ground espresso in the portafilter and some of the dark powder scatters onto the ground. He also struggles to tamp the grounds firmly before setting the portafilter into the machine. The resulting brew is surprisingly weak. Both Angelo and Sai say nothing.

* * *

Milan, Italy

February 1966

The wrench drops to the ground with a clatter. Angelo bends down to pick it up and finds himself struggling for breath. It slips from his fingers again.

Someone hands him the wrench and claps him on the back. The tall stocky man with glasses who works nearby. Er… nesto, maybe?

"You okay there, Angelo? You're not looking so good."

"I'm fine," Angelo mutters and nods his thanks.

He avoids looking at Sai and wills him not to say anything. Thankfully, Sai stays quiet. Angelo sits on his bench, listening to the thuds and clangs of the tools around him, and stares at his trembling hand.

He feels nauseous as a blank, nameless emotion overwhelms and paralyzes him. Why can't he curl his fist? The more Angelo tries, the more a familiar rage seeps in and he welcomes it. He bangs his hand on the table, but it lands with a soft thump.

He can fix this. He just needs more information. But for once, Angelo doesn't want to find out.

* * *

Milan, Italy

May 1966

"Where would you go, Sai, if you could go anywhere in the world?"

Angelo's question catches Sai by surprise.

_Hmm… I'd like to go where they grow the best coffee beans and taste them at the source. Brazil, Colombia, Puerto Rico, the Ivory Coast… oh, and certainly Ethiopia, where they discovered the first coffee trees!_

"Well, I don't know why I'm surprised. I shouldn't be. Anywhere else?"

Sai recalls the room in Caffè Florian that had been filled with curious porcelain statues and paper fans.

_Somewhere in the Orient would be lovely._

"I agree. How about it? I can quit my job and we'll go traveling," Angelo smiles even as his voice comes out strained.

Sai gives him a tight smile.

_Perhaps it is a good idea to stop working._

"There are so many places you haven't seen after all. I used to hate traveling but it's different with you," Angelo muses.

_But Angelo… You're not well._

The words, finally uttered, seem to echo loudly in the silence afterward. They had both been pretending for months not to notice the increasing tremors of his hand, the dropped mugs and tools, and the way Angelo often lapsed into silence around others rather than struggling to speak.

Angelo winces as he opens his mouth to speak. Sai floats down to face him unwaveringly. They hold each other's gaze for a long moment before Angelo closes his eyes and sighs.

"All the more reason… to take a trip now."

Sai can only look at him in agonized silence.

"Just a short trip. And then… I'll see a doctor."

* * *

Milan, Italy

November 1966

_How are you feeling?_

Nothing. He feels nothing.

"Three to five years, huh? I should start getting rid of this junk now then. Make things easier later on," Angelo says tonelessly. He stands up slowly. One arm hangs limply at his side. He looks blankly down at the bits of machinery scattered on every surface, the stacks of trade magazines, and the piles of clothing in varying degrees of cleanliness.

He sees the old moka pot and picks it up with his good arm. A faint smile passes over his face.

"Hey… we never made it to Asia after all. I know an old classmate who lives in Japan. I could send this to him. Maybe you'll get lucky."

_I don't want to think about that._

Angelo sets the moka pot down gently. Then he picks up a stray book and hurls it against the wall.

"'Rapid degeneration', they said. I won't be able to speak. I won't be able to move. I won't be anything anymore. I'll just be a vegetable, waiting for the end alone."

_You'll have me._

Angelo stares at him, dumbfounded. Sai looks as young and radiant as the day he first appeared. Angelo feels ancient next to him, even though he's only 42 years old. He should have so much more time left.

He shakes his head, laughing softly to himself.

"Yes, I'll have my ghost with me. Right until the end when I finally join him."

_And I won't leave you._

"Thank God for that," he whispers.

* * *

December 1969

The white ceiling again. Angelo struggles to keep his eyes open.

"Are you there?"

_Of course. I'm always here._

Angelo sees the faint figure of a young man smiling over him.

"Good."

He closes his eyes.

* * *

January 1970

Hey, Mister Know-it-all. What happens after?

_It feels like sleeping, unless your soul isn't at peace. Do you have any regrets?_

I don't think I'm obsessed enough with coffee to come back like you did.

_Are you still scared?_

No. Because you you're here with me. And we lived a good life together.

_We really did. We even made managed to take that trip to the coffee fields of Colombia!_

And you took me to Venice and Milan, in your own way.

_I'm sorry I've burdened you. Maybe you could have had a family and a normal life, if it weren't for me._

What nonsense are you talking about? I never wanted anything else but you. Didn't I tell you that?

_No, you didn't._

Mio caro idiota.

_Goodbye, Angelo. I love you._

I love you too, Sai.

* * *

Footnote:

Angelo's espresso machine innovations in this chapter were inspired by the career of Ernesto Valente: "But it was Ernesto Valente, who had split from Gaggia in 1950, who came up with the most radical innovation in 1961." from the wikipedia entry on Faema, and "Such semi automatic machines remain the standard operating tool in Italy today." from 


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